Village People vs. The Brick Phone

The usual suspects had gathered under the sprawling mango tree, their laughter a familiar, if sometimes grating, symphony against the afternoon heat. Chinedu, or rather, the Nokia King as he was known beyond the dusty confines of this particular village square, slouched on a worn wooden bench, his trusty 3310 nestled comfortably in his palm. He’d come back to visit his ancestral home, a pilgrimage he undertook with the same mixture of obligation and mild dread that most men reserved for tax season.

“Chinedu! My son!” Elder Kolawole boomed, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to shake the very mangoes from their branches. He ambled over, his eyes, perpetually squinted against the sun, fixing on Chinedu’s phone. “Still with that… that thing?”

A chorus of chuckles rippled through the assembled elders and younger men. Uncle Bode, predictably, was at the forefront, a smug smile plastered across his face. “Ah, Chinedu. Still living in the Stone Age, I see. Tell me, does that thing even know what a camera is?”